“Pardon me,” said I, “I am nine,—a very mystical number nine is too, and represents the Muses, who, you know, were always attendant upon Venus—or you, which is the same thing; so you can no more dispense with my company than you can with that of the Graces.”
“Good morning, Sir William,” cried the Lady Hasselton, rising.
I offered to hand her to the door; with great difficulty, for her hoop was of the very newest enormity of circumference; I effected this object. “Well, Count,” said she, “I am glad to see you have brought so much learning from school; make the best use of it while it lasts, for your memory will not furnish you with a single simile out of the mythology by the end of next winter.”
“That would be a pity,” said I, “for I intend having as many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should like to worship them in a classical fashion.”
“Oh, the young reprobate!” said the beauty, tapping me with her fan. “And pray, what other deities besides Venus do I resemble?”
“All!” said I,—“at least, all the celestial ones!”
Though half way through the door, the beauty extricated her hoop, and drew back. “Bless me, the gods as well as the goddesses?”
“Certainly.”
“You jest: tell me how.”
“Nothing can be easier; you resemble Mercury because of your thefts.”